


Devoted

by JollyRogue



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom!Crozier, Cinnamon Roll Worship, D/s, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Hand Jobs, M/M, Top!Jopson, Uniform Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-05 01:18:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17909282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JollyRogue/pseuds/JollyRogue
Summary: Captain Francis Crozier takes great pride and joy in serving his master.





	Devoted

**Author's Note:**

> Here sails my #1 favorite ship, wohooo! (#2 is Crozier/Fitzjames). Mind the tags! I hope you enjoy reading! <3

Captain Francis Crozier stands at attention, wearing full dress uniform and carrying the fore-and-aft hat under his arm, in the great cabin. His steward, Thomas Jopson, circles around him with a critical eye, brushing away a speck of dust on the uniform here, or re-polishing a button there. Finally he steps before him with a smile and an approving nod. “At ease, Captain.”

Upon hearing the order, Crozier relaxes his stance and looks at Jopson, glad to see the younger man so content with his work.

“How splendid you look, Captain”, Jopson says. “So very handsome.”

A hot blush blossoms on Crozier's cheeks, most pleasant and warm. This is high praise coming from Jopson, the perfectionist and connoisseur, and although he dispenses it regularly Crozier can never get enough of it.

Jopson puts the clothesbrush and polishing-cloth aside, and invites him to the bedcabin. This he does only with the slightest wave of his hand, and with his pretty mouth hinting at a smile, but it is enough to give Crozier's abdomen a pleasant tug of excitement. He knows what is to come, and he has to calm himself to not stumble over his own feet when entering the cabin.

There, Thomas Jopson takes a seat on the small chair by the folding wall desk which he has previously cleared and closed so as to provide more space in the diminuitive room. He exhales, relaxes, legs spread, forearms on the armrests, and for a moment he seems to have forgotten what to do.

“You … you need to give me orders”, Crozier reminds him carefully, “...sir.”

“Ah, right!” A chuckle, and Jopson brushes a hand over his forehead, more out of habit than actually setting that stray strand of hair in place. It falls right back over his eye, as usual – and there it is, that bold sparkle in his beautiful eyes, the look that Crozier hungers for.

“Get on your knees”, he gives the order to his captain.

Francis Crozier obeys at once, placing the hat onto the floor next to him. He scoots closer to Jopson's open legs, looking up at him for encouragement and permission. Jopson nods, smiling. And Crozier ponders, as he caresses Jopson's wool-clad thighs, what a strange sense of humour the Goddess of Fate has. How has it come to pass that a man of such radiant beauty, of such unshakable integrity, should – on paper – be inferior to him? What strange prank of the universe has put this blameless human being into the position of serving him, a cranky, aging drunkard with an occasionally coarse temper? No, _this_ is as things should be: Crozier should rightfully be the one to worship at the altar of virtue, youth and virility.

He should be the one to serve Jopson. Even if they have to do it in secret: this is as things should be.

With trembling hands as he tries to keep his impatience in check, he unbuttons Jopson's trousers. His face feels hot, and he cannot decide whether it is from his own eagerness, or the warmth radiating from Jopson's lap. To his excitement, he discovers that Jopson is already half erect, and he works to free all of his manhood from the confines of trousers and drawers – stones, too, so he can feel their delicate weight in his one hand while grasping the cock with the other and taking it up in his mouth.

An appreciative hum from Jopson tells him he is doing well, and he focuses on the task – the task he is really meant to do; to take care of his master's most intimate needs. He slides his head up and down gently, slowly, mirroring the motion with a hand pulling the foreskin along the shaft, relishing and adoring the warm, velvety sensation. Jopson's prick is a thing of beauty, and to feel it growing hard is already a reward in itself. And here, in the protection of the tiny enclosed cabin, in the warmth of his lover's lap, he finds himself in a sanctuary that gives him peace of mind like nothing else can.

Jopson is now fully hard on his tongue, solid enough to stand freely by itself, and Crozier releases his grip. He puts both hands on Jopson's thighs, anchoring himself in place, and starts to work him with his mouth only. His own uniform trousers are long uncomfortably tight, but his own arousal is not important, not now.

He is unable to take in all of Jopson's length – he tries it every time, even though Jopson insists there is no need to – so he compensates by moving faster, and sucking harder. If only – the thought feels almost blasphemous – Jopson were just a little less fastidious about keeping clean, so he would now taste more than just the barest traces of musk. But perhaps that's what is required of him: to lavish thorough attention on that cock, chasing the taste he craves so much.

Jopson's breathing, more audible now, sounds to his ears as sweet as a declaration of love. As he feels a warm hand on his hair, his stomach gives an excited jump. Jopson caresses his captain's – _his_ _servant's_ – hair, lets his fingertips trail along Crozier's ear and neck.

“That's a good lad”, Jopson mutters. “No, stay – keep going … yes. Yes.”

Crozier remembers that initially it has cost Jopson quite an effort to talk to him in this way, but each time they play their little game the words seem to come to him more easily, to the point that now he actually surprises Crozier at times with his indecent imagination.

“Look at you, on your knees for me …” Jopson's voice is breathy and lewd, “…hungry for my prick like a starved whore. Even now I can't … Can't believe what I'm seeing.”

Crozier, occupied as he is, cannot look up to meet what he knows is Jopson's lust-veiled gaze, but he feels it all over him nonetheless. The younger man's gorgeous jade-green eyes are directed at him, taking in the sight of his fully uniformed captain debasing himself for his pleasure.

“All right.” Jopson's hand gives his head a very gentle, firm push. “Slow down, now …”

By now there will be a telling blush, an unconcealed want on Jopson's face, and he will be all the lovelier for it; a sight that Crozier is eager to see. Obeying the order, he pauses, then resumes his ministrations, slowly. The most beautiful cock he's ever had the pleasure to please is absolutely rigid, its head all out, shining wet with saliva and its own fluid. That spectacle alone, combined with the knowledge that's he's responsible for it, makes Crozier's own manhood throb, and when he imagines what is perhaps to follow –

“I've got a mind to bugger you.” Jopson, as usual, anticipates Crozier's most visceral needs perfectly. His voice is a breathless, raspy promise. “Yes. Oh, yes. Keep it slow. Don't want to spend yet … Good.”

Crozier pauses at once, for the thought he must articulate is urgent. “I'm not worthy.”

“Yes, maybe you aren't.” Jopson signifies him to stop, taking Crozier's jaw in his hand and forcing him to look up, away from his cock. “But you happen to have a fine, tight arse in that uniform of yours, and I want to fuck it. Get on the bed.” In that moment, Jopson's face breaks into a lewd grin – he cannot conceal his joy for gaining skill in filth-talking.

Crozier shudders with delight. His knees creak and hurt when he stands, but the excited flutter of his gut, his ever more aching prick compel him on. He climbs onto his bunk and kneels, working his trouser buttons, trying to be quick – not because of his own impatience, but because he must not delay his master's pleasure. Face sinking into the bedding, he drags his trousers and drawers down, flings shirttails and coattails out of the way. The latter prove difficult to handle, frequently landing back on his naked bottom, but he needs to concern himself with them no further: Jopson climbs up right behind him and pushes the coattails out of the way – not with impatience, but the purposeful determination of one who is about to conquer.

Pressing his forehead against the mattress, he utters a frustrated sound even though he knows it is not his place to do so. But it is all he can do in this situation, aroused and unfulfilled, with no leave to touch himself yet. “Please …”

Jopson's hard length presses rigid and ready between his arse-cheeks. Two firm hands grab his flanks. Then Jopson ruts against him, along and over his most intimate spot. It feels slick, even wetter than that cock has previously been in his mouth. Thank God there's enough of the salve still.

“I see you prepared yourself for me.”

“Yes … sir.” Crozier can't keep a high pitch from creeping into his voice.

A hard slap on the arse, and he twitches. “No one would believe me”, Jopson growls, “if I told them … I have my captain, in full uniform, face down and arse up, on his bed like a wanton whore!”

“Please”, Crozier whimpers in response. Jopson's words, his lust-drenched voice, ring like the most delightful music in his ears. “Please, just …”

“And all he wants is my cock! Nothing else matters to him!”

“Yes, sir!” God, what is Jopson waiting for?

“He is begging to be fucked! … No shame, no self-control – at all!”

“Yes”, Crozier whines. And – at long last! – he feels Jopson's palm pressing into the small of his back, then the eagerly awaited reward pushing at his entrance.

Jopson thrusts forward, and Crozier groans against the linen, bunching it in both fists. The first breach always feels tight and acute, but nothing compares to the fresh sensation of being conquered; and he savours every second of it, every inch of Jopson's pulsating cock easing into him.

Yes, he is indeed a wanton whore, and this is both his punishment and bounty in one.

As Jopson begins rocking forth and back in languid thrusts, Crozier braces himself on the bed, resting on his elbows and trying to focus on the full, stuffed sensation of his arse instead of his neglected cock, but the two are intertwined – with each of Jopson's thrusts as he continues harder, he hits that wondrous spot deep inside of him, sending out maddening impulses that make his cock more solid still.

It can't be helped – he must touch himself, if only for a few moments. Resting his upper body on his forearm for better balance he reaches up to his groin with the other hand, enclosing it around his prick, so silky hot and and it feels oh so good, so firm, so –

His moan is cut off as Jopson slaps him, hard, onto the bottom. “Did I say”, he pants, “that you could touch yourself!?”

Crozier lets go at once, hand jerking away from the forbidden part as if he's burnt himself on it. “No”, he whines, “but please … please!”

Jopson bends over him, grabbing a fistful of his hair, and Crozier can hear his breath and smell the raw heat perspiring from him. “No self-restraint … Like a bitch in rut.” He snaps his hips forward as if to illustrate his point. “You need to be taken. Say it!”

“Yes, sir!” Crozier's voice almost breaks with frustration and want. “Yes!”

“Good boy!” Jopson pushes Crozier's face back down into the sheets, then grabs his hips with both hands.

It is almost preposterous: that sweet, gentle, polite Thomas Jopson should treat him so roughly, but it only heightens the thrill of being used in this manner and the marvel of it makes his cock throb harder.

Jopson exchanges his regular rhythm for faster, determined movements, chasing his release, and Crozier is not sure which he desperately wants more – the prize of seed in him, or a stimulating hand on his aching arousal. It does not take long: Jopson spends with a groan, shoving him forward with the force of his whole body; and his cock pulsates once, twice, in what feels like a depth in his gut Crozier hasn't even known could be reached.

As his exhausted lover/servant/master sinks on top of him, still panting, Crozier carefully extends his shaky legs to lie down flat – a most delicate operation if it is to be accomplished without Jopson slipping out of him, but then at least he might be able to frig himself against the bed for a bit …

Caressing his captain's hair with a sweaty hand, Jopson whispers “Lie on your side. Careful.” He shows him what he means to do, guiding him around, and Crozier complies. The dress uniform still on him is now uncomfortably warm and restrictive, its heavy fabric and stiff cut not made for much more than standing at attention and parading around dinner galas. But when he lies on his side, Jopson spooning him from behind and his softening prick miraculously still inside him; his strong, youthful body a protective presence, any discomfort is at once forgotten.

“Good boy”, Jopson mouths at his ear, licks and nibbles it – he knows it to be a sensitive area. Crozier shivers with still unfulfilled need, and – finally! – Jopson's hand reaches over his hip to grasp him. His thighs twitch involuntarily, and Jopson presses himself against his arse, hot skin on skin, using one leg to hold Crozier's, his whole body at the same time holding and comforting him.

“God”, Crozier moans, arching his head back to better meet Jopson's tongue at the delicate area of his ears and neck, and resisting the urge to thrust into his grip. The younger man's hand is firm, exquisitely so, betraying years of practice holding and handling his captain's prick. Jopson tugs it all the way back to reveal the leaking tip from the foreskin, and then pulls it forth again, providing a slow friction almost unbearable.

“Yes … good”, Jopson whispers straight into Crozier's ear, sending a delightful shudder down his spine. “You deserve to spend, you've given me so much pleasure … Can you feel it? I'm still in you.”

Crozier means to respond with _yes;_ but only manages a whimper, a most undignified sound that trails off into another moan as Jopson speeds up his frigging.

In Jopson's fervent embrace all he can do is let himself fall, and his release overwhelms him with the force of a rolling tidal wave. Jopson holds him through it, one hand around his prick, and his lips pressing little kisses to Crozier's nape.

They lie still for a minute or so. Crozier panting, Jopson breathing quietly at his ear, as his arousal ebbs away; to be replaced with a vast tiredness. He registers Jopson pulling out, slowly. A small groan, a rustle, then something very different is pressed against his arse.

A handkerchief, he realizes, as the heat rushes to his cheeks. He likes to clean up afterwards as everyone else, but to be reminded of such shameful necessities …

“It's all right”, Jopson whispers to him. “Rest now, captain.” He is wiping his privates with another handkerchief; then there is an awkward shuffle as he pulls up his trousers and closes them. Still lying along his exhausted captain, he reaches over his hip but this time not for his cock, but to wipe away what he has spent all over the bedding. With a pang of embarrassment Crozier remembers that Jopson has washed those same sheets only a week ago.

“I'm sorry”, he mutters. “Heat of the moment …” Damnit, why has he forgotten to use a handkerchief or towel?

“Nevermind.” Jopson does not at all sound annoyed.

With some help from him, Crozier contrives to pull up his trousers as well – it is about time, since being clothed and at the same time having a chilly breeze around one's genitalia is a most irritating sensation. They stay on the bed for a while, almost dozing off, quietly breathing the briny scent of their passions still thick in the air. Jopson again embraces him from behind.

“I've an idea”, he whispers, and Crozier can practically hear the mischievous grin.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Next time you want to be my servant … perhaps I should have you launder those sheets.”

Once again, Jopson leaves him lost for a witty response. That lad will be the death of him! He cannot suppress a chuckle.

“You may laugh, captain, but I'm serious … I will be standing near you while you work. And if you don't do the wash properly, I'll have to punish you. Mmmh, yeah!” He giggles, and it's not quite clear whether he is making a joke, or truly enamoured with the idea. “Would you prefer a cane or a rod?”

And unexpectedly Crozier lies awake for some time, contemplating the options.

  
  


THE END

  
  


 


End file.
